


Rogers, Show Me Going

by alecjbi



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Protective Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alecjbi/pseuds/alecjbi
Summary: "What are they saying?" Darcy asked, looking up at the captain."Their badge number and 'show me going', notifying dispatch to show them going to the scene. Some officers that are already near the scene are responding before dispatch sends in others."1947, Kaye, show me going.Darcy nodded.1947, I have you going.Bucky clicked on Steve's number, hearing the familiar ring as he raised it to his ear.1602, Rogers, show me going.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	Rogers, Show Me Going

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! been awhile since i've written anything but here's a fic i've been working on sporadically since january 2019. the idea was 100% ripped off from a brooklyn nine-nine episode called "show me going". kudos and comments are always appreciated, and i hope you enjoy!

A kiss on the cheek, and he was off.    
  
"You'll tell me when you head home, yeah?" Steve asked, packing up the contents of the day into a tattered old backpack. Bucky sat across from him, leaning back in his chair, sipping from the tenth cup of coffee that day, despite the fact that the sun was well below the horizon.    
  
"I will, Steve, stop worrying," he responded. "I have to finish some paperwork for the lieutenant's exam and I'll be home."   
  
"I'm not worrying!" Steve protested, playfully tossing an old sweatshirt at the man across from him. "I just want you to be safe."   
  
"You know, the police force is a lot better than it was before. There aren't even Nazis anymore."   
  
Steve blinked back at him. "Have you been paying attention to  _ anything  _ that’s been happening?"   
  
Bucky chuckled, standing up and crumpling Steve's hoodie into the last open spot in his backpack. "Stop worrying for a moment, would you? I'll be safe, don't worry.” He paused, picking up a stack of papers full of doodles. Glancing over at Steve, he seemed to be distracted with trying to zip his overflowing backpack, giving Bucky a chance to rifle through his art.

It seemed that Steve worked on portraiture today. Intricate details of Stark’s hair and wrinkles on his forehead littered the page, a profile of Romanoff with her hair in a high ponytail, Barton and Banner bickering at their desks. Moreso, there were countless sketches of Bucky- he could only assume Steve drew him while he wasn’t looking. After all, their desks  _ were  _ across from each other. His hair was drawn back in a ponytail in some, looking far nicer than Bucky could ever make it. In some, his hair was down, a cup of coffee in his hands, or head leaning on his hand as he tried to get through the droll workday. 

“Did you even do any work today?” he asked, pointing to the paper in his hands. “Because there’s a lot of these, more than normal.”

A blush rose on Steve’s cheekbones. “I was doing criminal sketches,” he said sheepishly.

“This is Nick Fury,” Bucky smiled, lifting up a portrait of Fury pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you suggesting that our captain is a suspect in a crime?”

“ _ Stop,”  _ Steve whined, snatching the pages from Bucky and crumpling it into his pocket. “This is why I never show you anything.” 

“Come on, I love your drawings,” he responded. “I’ll even let you draw me when I get home.”

That piqued Steve’s interest, his shoulders relaxing and a small smile forming. “You can’t complain that I drew you wrong this time.” 

“You’re a tough one, Rogers,” Bucky said, collapsing back in his chair. “See you at home.”

"See you at home," Steve parroted, an odd look on his face. Bucky would have held him back for a moment, grabbed him by the wrist and asked what was wrong, but Steve simply pressed a kiss on his cheek and turned towards the door, leaving no room for Bucky to follow. He instead sat back at his desk, a sigh escaping as he saw the ever-growing pile of paperwork he still had left to apply for the lieutenant’s exam. He would have been content with staying as a sergeant, but Steve insisted. There was enough going on in his life to begin with, and getting promoted meant he was most likely going to move to a new precinct, as Romanov was going for the sergeant's position.   
  
And that was a problem. He was second-in-command to their captain, the emotionless Nick Fury, and was in charge of keeping Brooklyn's 73rd precinct together from day to day. Bucky was the only one who had some sort of control in keeping the precinct from catching on fire by mediating between the unique cast of characters at work. Without him, well… who knows. 

Detective Romanov, third in command, had her all-business attitude and was always ready to kill someone- namely Stark, a genius (though Bucky would never admit it to his face) who had more than enough money from inheriting his dad’s business to be working as a tech in a godforsaken NYPD precinct. Most likely just a day job to keep himself occupied. At least he had implemented an AI for the station, a helpful British, disembodied voice named Jarvis. He hung around most days with Banner, tinkering on inventions when the part-time scientist wasn’t in the field. There was also Barton, a laid-back detective who had a penchant for removing his hearing aids whenever Bucky gave him an order. Someone not even Romanov could keep in line due to their old friendship. 

And then there was Steve. 

Steve liked being a hero. Maybe a bit too much so. He was constantly getting himself in trouble, going against protocol and direct orders. It was a miracle he hadn’t been fired yet. He had been a scrawny kid in Brooklyn, trying to live up to his grandfather's name, who died in World War II in a plane crash, alongside Bucky's own grandfather. He justified his disobedience by saying he was "trying to do the right thing", which made Bucky want to choke him, if only it wouldn’t turn Steve on.    
  
Bucky tried to keep it together. He really did. But Steve was killing him in every sense of the word. Their relationship was tiring enough. He had tried to break it off more times than he could count- a relationship between an officer and his subordinate could have gotten them both fired. Not to mention that it was a gay relationship between two childhood friends. The looks he got their respective families had been punishment enough. But, through all the hardship, Steve continued to love him. Steve still loved him when he came back with one less arm and a bad case of PTSD. He just kept coming back, and Bucky kept on falling back into his trap. Even after the catastrophe that was Steve having a one night stand with Stark after a particularly nasty fight, which led to Bucky moving out and sleeping on various couches for the entirety of the winter months- he came back.    
  
Bucky hated him at times, screamed in his face, even sucker punched him in the middle of a PTSD-induced dream. But Steve was still there, even with a broken nose, blood streaming down his chin, as he would hold Bucky, run his fingers through his hair. So he loved him at times, and loved him dearly.   
  
A conglomeration of people huddled around the desk of the captain's assistant brought him out of his reprieve, their whispers and furrowed eyebrows spelling nothing pleasant.    
  
"What's going on here?" Bucky asked, approaching the group. His entire squad stood there, including Captain Fury.    
  
"There's an active shooter situation in Bushwick near Broadway," the captain responded, looking at the police scanner positioned on the edge of Darcy's desk. He remained stoic, the concealed tapping of his fingers against his thigh the only thing giving away his worry.    
  
"That's somewhat near my apartment, do you know what building it is? Steve's going home right now, I'll tell him to avoid it."   
  
"We don't know," Romanov answered. "We didn't tune in soon enough."   
  
"Huh." Bucky reached for his phone, flipping to Steve's number before the radio lit up again.    
  
_ 2032, Mann, show me going.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ 2032, I have you going.  _ _  
_   
"What are they saying?" Darcy asked, looking up at the captain.    
  
"Their badge number and 'show me going', notifying dispatch to show them going to the scene. Some officers that are already near the scene are responding before dispatch sends in others."   
  
_ 1947, Kaye, show me going. _ _  
_   
Darcy nodded.   
  
_ 1947, I have you going.  _ _  
_   
Bucky clicked on Steve's number, hearing the familiar ring as he raised it to his ear.    
  
_ 1602, Rogers, show me going. _ _  
_   
Five pairs of eyes shot up to Bucky as the phone slipped out of his hand.    
  
_ 1602, I have you going. _ _  
_   
Trembling hands grabbed at his phone on the floor, dodging the hands of his squad gravitating to his shoulder. A sick feeling in his stomach seeped into his chest, the hellish feeling of being helpless. It was the same sinking feeling that sat in his stomach, a rock pulling him down beneath the surface until all he could breathe was water. It was almost as if-   
  
_ “Steve, please!” he pleaded, voice barely audible over unsteady ba-dum of his heart. “Please don’t go.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Steve stood in the doorway, a century-old army rucksack on his shoulder. Nothing on his face displayed pain- instead, all that showed was hatred. Normally sky-blue eyes turned to the color of a storm above the sea, brewing, a portent for death and destruction coming down upon those unprepared. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ And Bucky was not prepared.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “You’re not you anymore,” he whispered, dark eyes locked on Bucky’s. “You’re different-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Of course I’m different, Steve, I lost a fucking arm!” he yelled, composure slipping and revealing the broken James Buchanan Barnes behind it. The one who couldn’t fight away the trauma he sustained. “I was undercover for a year and went against everything I ever stood for, made into a killer... no wonder I’m different.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “I understand that, Buck, but you’ve made no effort to change after that! I can’t trust you.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Oh, so I’m the untrustworthy one? I’m the one begging you to come back when you’re the one who’s been fucking Tony Stark!” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Steve faltered, his face falling just for a second. The weakness and reaction that Bucky was prying for. “Buck, that isn’t-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Oh don’t give me that shit, Steve,” he said, throwing his hands up and falling onto the couch armrest. “You think I haven’t seen him looking at you like that? Those notes you pass like you’re goddamn schoolboys? I’ve looked away for all this time-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Enough!” Steve roared, storming up to Bucky, the latter standing up to meet him. Dark eyes met light. They were opposites of each other, meant to attract, but drifting apart in the end. His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “This is why I can’t trust you anymore. You’re a hyper-obsessed, paranoid asshole who can’t keep a relationship to save his life. I never fucked him, James. I’ve never even thought about him that way. But after tonight, I’m not so sure that’ll stay true.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Blue and dark eyes met once more before Steve turned away. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky sank to the floor as the door slammed.  _ _  
_   
-he was back where it all began.   
  
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Bucky muttered, slipping away from the group with his head towards the ground. He shakily scrolled to Steve’s contact, a blurry photo of Steve smiling in his uniform greeting him. The slight moment of hesitation before he clicked Steve’s number almost confirmed his fears.   
  
"Come on, Steve, pick up," he muttered, toe tapping as the sound of the ringing phone burrowed into his brain. "Pick up, pick up,  _ pick up..."  _ _  
_   
_ You've reached the voicemail of Steve Rogers. Please leave a message- _ _  
_   
"Goddamnit, Steve!" Bucky yelled, his cellphone flying across the room, hitting a wall and crumpling to the floor in a sad display. The bullpen ground to halt as all attention was directed to him, a spotlight above him at the worst possible moment. Bucky stared at the ground, his hair scattered around him, having come out of his ponytail.    
  
The only sound in the room was Bucky's breath- five seconds in, seven seconds out. "Everyone get back to work," he ordered in the most stable voice he could muster, brushing the hair out of his face and collapsing into his chair. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him, but he knew it wouldn’t come.   
  
Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever sleep again.    
  


* * *

Much to his horror, the police scanner had been quiet.    
  
Bucky sat at Darcy's desk for an hour. The clock had moved slowly, no excitement to speed it up, or shock to stop it dead in its tracks. He stared at the arms turn, the second hand jolt with each second that he received no news. He was only greeted with the typical chatter of the radio- some intermittent reports from officers outside the building, the SWAT team evacuating whatever civilians they could gain access to. Three minutes for officers to get inside the building, thirty for others to secure the scene and EMTs to tend to any victims. An hour for Steve to be in danger, in a building with what sounded like multiple active shooters.   
  
Eventually, Darcy shooed him back to his desk with an apologetic look and a pathetic granola bar that she pulled out of her pocket. Bucky accepted, picking at the corner while staring at Steve’s empty desk chair.

He could only imagine what it would be like to never see him in it again. Bucky sagged against his chair, leaning back and closing his eyes in an attempt to drown out the sound. The chatter of happy voices around him were overwhelming, too loud for a time like this. 

The sergeant opened his eyes and gravitated towards the framed photo on his desk. In it was a black and white film photo from a New Years party a few years ago, a roaring twenties-themed gala Stark had invited them to. Steve wore a pinstripe suit and Homburg hat with the silly little feather he spent an hour choosing, holding a gilded cane and sipping on a martini. Bucky stood next to him in a vest and suspenders, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He leaned against Steve with a cigar in his mouth. He smirked towards the camera, back to a time when smiles came easy and his hair didn’t drape over his face to disguise it. 

Now, sticky notes reminding Bucky to book another physical therapy appointment stuck to the edges of the frame, others to check up on leads or return something to the records department, another to buy melatonin at the drugstore. For all intents and purposes, from an outside view, life was the same as it was in the photo. Fun parties to go to with friends, daily chores to do, a boyfriend to take silly photos with. But Bucky knew the truth. 

The photo was taken two years ago, and one of the last times he had gotten a good night’s sleep. A few days later, he had been requested to go undercover, leaving whatever sense of a normal life and honeymoon phase he had. Next only came a metal arm and…

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, the thoughts mixing with the sounds around him being too much to process. Laying his head down onto his desk, the sergeant took a deep breath in. 

Once in, once out. A feeble attempt to grasp onto reality. 

Bucky rubbed his eyes and looked up, only to meet the cold eyes… or rather,  _ eye  _ of Nick Fury. Judging by the frown plastered upon his face (which was usually there, but that Bucky had gotten quite good at deciphering its slight variations), Bucky looked like shit. 

Sure felt like it, too. 

“Sergeant, when was the last time you slept?”   
  
Bucky wasn’t sure how to answer.   
  
If the captain was talking about a full night’s sleep, that was three weeks ago. A dangerous mix of Benadryl, Nyquil, and booze knocked him out for six hours before he woke up screaming. Steve was an unfamiliar face next to his, sending him into a blinded panic. He ran out of the room, searching for his gun and for Steve, the other’s face breaking and ripping ever so slightly at the seams whenever Bucky called out a strained “Steve?”. Like shards of glass, Steve’s defense shattered and crumbled around him. He sat at Bucky’s feet, tears trickling down his cheeks until the distorted picture of Steve locked back into place and Bucky collapsed onto the floor next to him.   
  
He hadn’t slept since.   
  
He could get infrequent ten minute naps at his desk before the dreams came sneaking back from the dark depths of his mind. Some days he skipped lunch in order to somehow catch up on sleep, but recently that was traded in favor of another cup of coffee and more paperwork. Some nights he would pass out before a dream woke him up an hour later. Nights were usually spent staring at the ceiling or watching late-night infomercials, a warm beer in hand.   
  
He was drowning.   
  
”Sergeant Barnes!” Captain Fury snapped, clapping a hand in front of Bucky’s face and making him jump. “When was the last time you slept?”   
  
Bucky blinked. “Uh...”   
  
Fury sighed and put two fingers to his temple. “Go home. There’s no reason for you to be here. You need sleep.”   
  
”Sir, I can’t go home,” Bucky protested.   
  
”Why?”   
  
”Because...”   
  
_ I can’t sleep. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The nightmares are too much. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Steve might never come home. _ _  
_   
”I’m locked out. S-Steve has my keys.”   


Lie. Adapt. Cover. All the things he had learned undercover. Don’t show your weakness, not even to yourself.

Fury looked him up and down, making Bucky want to hide in a hole, but he stood his ground. “Fine,” he finally said. “But get some sleep. Use the couch in the breakroom.”   
  
Bucky shivered. “Sir-“   
  
”That’s a direct order, Barnes.”   
  
Blood trickled from where Bucky clenched down on his cheek, the taste of iron and bitter salt the only thing keeping him level. “Yes, sir.”   
  
Bucky begrudgingly pushed his chair back and stood up, feeling the eyes of Captain Fury on his back. Was it even worth trying to sleep if he knew he’d just wake up screaming? If he was in his right mind, he’d disobey a direct order. However, Bucky was a military man. Not a very good one, but still a military man nonetheless, one who knew from experience of being a smartass not to talk back to a superior officer. Captain Fury wasn’t anything if not a stickler for rules.   
  
Bucky could only guess what dream lay ahead for him when he closed his eyes. The decrepit couch sent springs poking into his spine, making Bucky hope in vain that it may keep him awake. Even so, it was more familiar than his bed at home- army cots and metal tables that chilled him to the bone felt more natural than a warm and comfortable bed. Bucky knew there were only lies there, where it was only a matter of time after he let his guard down for someone to take advantage of his weakness. The discomfort greeted him, the dreaded darkness crept in, exhaustion getting the best of him as his consciousness flickered.    
  
_ “Bucky?” a voice whispered, frail but still hanging on. “Bucky, wake up.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ He was back in his apartment in Brooklyn. The yellow glow of streetlights filtered through his dirty window, dancing over the cropped blonde hair of the figure above him. The brick walls reeked of mildew, the floor creaking and warping with each step. Even if it definitely wasn’t up to safety standards, it was cheap. Between tours to Iraq and taking care of Steve, he needed to save money wherever he could. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Sure, it was a shithole, but it was home. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Groaning, Bucky rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. “Steven Grant Rogers, what time is it?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky could hear the sheepish expression on the other’s face and smirked into his pillow. “3:30 AM...” Steve muttered. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky sighed. “Are you dying?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Well, no-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Am I dying?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”I don’t think so-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Is the apartment on fire?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Not last I checked-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Are you having gay thoughts towards your best friend and came here to confess your love to me?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky chuckled as he imagined the blush on Steve’s face that would accompany his stuttered words. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, no-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Then why the hell are you in my room?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky’s heart dropped as Steve’s sigh dissolved into a cough, and then another. And another. He had heard this sound before, in the middle of the night when Steve struggled to breathe and choked out a weak “Bucky” before the elder came hurrying in with an inhaler and his phone out, ready to dial 911. He knew it from when Steve collapsed when his stomach hurt too much to stand, when his crooked and curving back, scarred from years of surgeries trying to correct his spine, jerked as his attempts at drawing in air were met with dry coughs. Bucky could only sit there and rub his back, remind him of the breathing exercises they did, and pray to whatever god out there that his chronically ill best friend would stay alive for another night. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky quickly and gracefully rolled out of bed, moving to Steve before the coughing became uncontrollable. He rubbed his hand on the younger’s back, a habit from long nights of winter sickness and asthma attacks. He could feel the curve of his back, hoped his presence would somehow help his friend. Steve’s chest rattled as he finally sucked in a decent breath- barely normal by Bucky’s standards but a deep one by Steve’s. He pulled his hands away from his mouth, an unmistakable scarlet staining his fingers. Bucky sucked in a breath. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Jesus Christ, Steve, are you coughing up blood?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Steve only nodded, staring at his shaking fingers.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Why didn’t you lead with that? ‘Hey, Bucky, woke you up to tell you that I’m coughing up blood and we really need to go-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky quickly cut himself off as Steve’s eyes got glossy and his knees went limp. He barely caught the kid before he hit the ground, blood pouring out of his mouth, splattering and staining Bucky’s shirt. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The scene changed. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Sergeant Barnes was storming into an alleyway, Detective Rogers following close behind. The sergeant’s hands shook as he stopped, refusing to turn around or give Steve the satisfaction of seeing his anger. Though, he was sure the other could feel it, radiating off the bricks in the alleyway in hot waves, the ground shaking beneath them.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Do I even need to tell you how fucking stupid that was, or do you already know?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”I know-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”I’m not sure you do, Steve. You see, you had absolutely no clearance to go out into the field. None. Your job is sitting at your desk all day, doing paperwork and working on cases from there.” Bucky clenched his fingers at his side, trying in vain to keep the fire at bay. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”I need to get out, Bucky, I can’t just sit at a desk all day-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Like hell you can’t!” Bucky yelled, turning and facing him, the fire-hot anger unable to be contained below the surface. “You’re not cleared for active duty. You have no experience, no officer supervising you. You’re fucking lucky I’m the one who found you, Steve. What would’ve Fury done, huh? I know you think you’re all grown up, but you’re still under my command, and you can’t do whatever the hell you want-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Steve’s face dropped. “Bucky-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Hold on a goddamn minute,” he growled, stalking up to him as Steve stood his ground. “What if something were to happen to you? Doc. E has no idea if your health is gonna last! You think you’re all that, with that fancy miracle treatment- you think you’re some sort of super soldier, like America went and dubbed thee the savior of all, like you’re some sort of Captain America-” _

_ ”Bucky, really-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”What would happen if you had an attack on the field, huh? What would happen if that serum stopped working? Who would be there to save you, since you went on your own to take down one of the biggest drug lords in the entirety of Brooklyn-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Bucky, turn around!” Steve yelled, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. Bucky whipped his head around, his gun already out of the holster, before a deafening shot fired, the blurry face of his assailant behind a bullet barreling past him- _ _  
_ _  
_ _ He was alone. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ It was dark. Quiet. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The only sound was the steady drip of blood coming from the place where his left arm used to be. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The pain had dulled in the hours they had left him here, but every move was electricity shooting into his spine and down his phantom arm. He could barely move his head up, dirty black hair framing his narrow point of view. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The man was there, tipping up his chin with a knife blade before Bucky even heard footsteps. He couldn’t see his captor in the nonexistent light, only the large silhouette that moved seamlessly and silent. The silver blade pricked at his skin, an unpleasant but almost welcomed feeling. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”What do they know about us, cop?”  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky grinned, the gaps of missing teeth smiling back. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ His head snapped to the side as a fist collided with it, and Bucky laughed. Another fist followed, the pain nothing to him anymore. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Fine. If you don’t tell us anything, then we’ll just have to go after your family.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”My family’s dead,” he responded, head still hanging loosely from his neck. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “I didn’t mean them, James. I meant your little boy toy, Steve Rogers.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky managed to lift his head, a sick feeling rushing up to his throat. “Don’t.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”How would you like to see him die, huh? We could bring him here so you see the show." _ _  
_

_ "Stop,” he choked.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Why, you scared, cop? Scared to see him suffer without his lord and savior Buck there to protect him?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Stop, please-“ _ _  
_ _  
_ _ ”Maybe we’ll just bait him here, and you can watch him die if you won’t tell us what we want-“ _ _  
_   
”No!” he yelled, jolting up from the couch and reaching for his gun. The familiar walls of the break room did little to comfort him as he fell back and checked his watch.   
  
Thirty minutes. Ten minutes apiece to watch Steve Rogers die.    
  
Sighing, Bucky rolled to his side and rubbed his eyes. They stung, trying to latch onto the little bit of fitful sleep he had. He tried to remember the breathing exercises he had learned in therapy, the ones Steve would guide him through when he woke up screaming…

_ In for five, hold for three, out for seven. _

Repetitive breaths guided him out of the nightmare and back to the break room as it was. Looking around, no one was in there. Maybe to leave him be as he slept, Bucky guessed, but he heard frightful chatter and a crowd towards Darcy’s desk…

Bucky catapulted off of the couch and to the door. He jerked open the door, looking towards the radio scanner, where he realized the bullpen had gone silent.

Everyone, except the captain, stood around listening.   
  
Darcy looked up in fear as she glanced towards Fury in his office, the captain rushing in to hear the news. Bucky watched from the door, rubbing his temples and trying to overhear the conversation. The crowd thickened, blocking the sound of the radio. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut once again, the possibilities of what could be going too scary to face. 

Was ignorance bliss, or should he face the possibility that he may be sleeping in an empty bed? Finally, the sergeant stepped forward and faced the music. 

It wasn’t a sweet sound. 

"What's going on?" Bucky asked, pushing his way through the small crowd gathered around Darcy's desk. The captain was sitting at the corner with an unreadable look on his face. The faces of his squad looked up at him, grimacing as the radio lit up.    
  
"Confirmed shots fired," Captain Fury responded, lifting his head to face Bucky. "Three officers down, one confirmed dead."    
  
The clock stopped.   
  
Bucky frantically looked around, whipping his head to see his coworker's sad eyes towards him. Even Stark looked as if he pitied him as Bucky leaned against the desk for some semblance of support. "Is he-"   
  
"We don't know," Romanov spoke, moving towards the sergeant and warily placing a hand on his shoulder. "Both officers are unresponsive, barely made it out of the building alive. They were two women. Arrived about the same time as..." Romanov paused, aiming her eyes towards the ground in an uncharacteristic display. "As Steve."   
  
Banner tentatively chimed in. "So, by process of elimination-"   
  
Bucky didn't need Bruce to do the math for him. Steve presumably went in with those two women, and if he wasn't an idiot (he actually prayed that Steve ignored common sense for once in his life) he would've stayed with them. Even if it wasn't Steve who got shot, only five officers were in that section of the building, as the command was sectioning off parts of the building to assigned groups. There were three women in that group, two men. Assuming that a male was shot, there was a fifty percent chance that Steve was dead.    
  
Air refused to come into his lungs.    
  
Bucky couldn't do fifty percent.   
  
Praying his legs could support him, Bucky lifted his hands from the desk and turned away. An idea flashed through his mind, and he turned down the hall. He had the clearance to check out weapons, the beat cop at the desk wouldn’t question him. He just needed a bulletproof vest, a gun or two-

Stark was standing in the doorway. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, his simple question holding some sort of anger and resentment that Bucky couldn’t entirely lay a finger on. 

“Why do you need to know?” he countered, making a movement to push past him. Stark laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back. Bucky tripped over his feet, not suspecting the blow. Stark merely stared back at him. “What?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Buc-”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted, stepping towards him. Though he was much taller, Stark did not cower. “You’re speaking to a superior officer.” 

Stark met his gaze, concern seeping through despite his will. “No, I’m talking to you as a friend.”

Bucky stared back, trying his best to show nothing else, to mask the burning flame inside of his chest. “I’m not your friend.”

“Fine. As someone who knows Steve-”

Buck’s breath hitched and a lump rose in his throat. “You’re not allowed to say that. You’re the person that nearly ruined our relationship-”

“Oh, whatever!” Stark countered, pushing him back into the hallway. “You’re the one that he can hardly trust anymore and that drove him off to me!” His voice rose and echoed down the empty hallway, but Bucky no longer cared who heard them. “You’re fucking lucky he forgave you.”

“Forgave me? What the hell did I do wrong? You’ve been seducing him since the moment he stepped into this precinct-”

“That is such bullshit, Bucky-”

“That’s Sergeant to you-”

Bucky never quite got the chance to finish his sentence, the radiating pain from his jaw to the rest of his mouth hindering his ability to speak. Out of instinct, Bucky punched back, metal barely missing flesh, before Stark hit him again, sending Bucky stumbling back to the wall. Stark stood beneath him, shaking out his hand and scowling at his Sergeant. Metal fingers brushed against his swollen jaw before balling up into a fist. 

“Did you just… punch me?” Bucky asked, incredulous. 

His assailant only stared at him. “I can’t let you go and try to save Steve, Bucky. He wouldn’t want you running after him, trying to save him. Even if he’s dead.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper, malice dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Don’t say that. Don’t say he’s dead.”

Stark moved closer to the door, almost in an attempt to lock it and prevent the other from entering. “It’s not like I’m too keen on the idea either, I care about him as much as you do!”

“Let me past, Tony.” His voice was hardly audible, the picture of Stark in front of him blurring. “I can’t live without him.”

For once, Stark’s face portrayed sympathy, the corners of his eyes softening with his frown. “I know.” 

His fist slowly softened until his metal fingers lay limp against his thigh. “I can’t go home now… not if he won’t come back. He’s been my best friend since the beginning, I’ve seen him almost die already. It’s all I ever see-”

Bucky cut himself off before his voice could break, before his composure slipped too much and Stark saw the part of him he was hiding from the world. Hair stuck to his forehead, blood streaking across it as he pushed it away. Glancing down at his hand, blood stained the skin in a shallow cut, injured somewhere in the scuffle. Blood dripped in steady, small droplets as he turned and walked down the hall. 

Stark didn’t move from his spot, only watched him go into the dim hallway. “Where are you going?” he called before Bucky turned around the corner.

Bucky glanced back, Stark’s face full of pity too much for him. He squeezed his eyes shut, drastically trying to push away the images of Steve that met him there. He always came back. 

“Home,” he answered, before rounding the corner and into the unknown. 

* * *

"Where ya' headed?" the taxi driver asked, in true New Yorker fashion. He held a cigarette in his left hand, smoke slowly filtering out the window.    
  
Buck sighed and pulled the seatbelt against his chest, resting his head on his hand. He stared out at the precinct, Fury's shadow silhouetted against the light still on in his office. "Hart and Bushwick, please." He pulled gauze out of his backpack, the steady movement over his scabbing wound giving him some semblance of comfort. 

The driver pulled away from the curb. "That whole area's closed off, man. Police everywhere." He didn't seem to notice Bucky tense up in the back seat. "You're a cop, have any idea what's goin' on down there?'   
  
Bucky still stared out the window, the lights passing by him in red and blue streaks. "Yeah. Active shooter. A few cops got shot."   
  
He glanced at the driver's frown in the rearview mirror. "You know any of 'em?"   
  
He closed his eyes and let the light disappear. "Maybe."   
  
The taxi driver simply hummed and slowed to a stop at the red light. Bucky picked at the bandage wrapped around his hand, the slight sting from the cut lingering on his palm. Blood slowly seeped through the layers already, scarlet red peeking through the white bandage. He wondered if the same color seeped from Steve's chest. He wondered when he would get a call from the morgue to claim Steve's body, which one of his coworkers would inform him that Detective Steve Rodgers was dead, the weight of the flag that would drape over his coffin- his shaking hand as he saluted, the way he would flinch at the sound of gunshots.    
  
It wasn't any use to think that Steve would still be alive. Bucky dug his nails into the cut, felt it open beneath the bandage. He might as well down a couple of beers and wait for the call. It wasn't any use to think that he would sleep again.    
  
Shaking hands slotted the key into his apartment door, his tired feet carrying him there after getting out of the taxi. Bucky didn't bother to slip off his shoes. He kept his eyes averted from the pictures of the two of them in the academy, a smiling photo of Steve in his clean, pressed uniform. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes standing proud next to him. The two of them dancing together at the office Christmas party, Bucky leaning in for a kiss on the cheek with loving eyes. Bucky wiggling his fingers of his left hand for the first time with his prosthetic; Steve hiding behind the camera and grinning wide. The two of them curled into Steve's hospital bed- the younger frail and emaciated, at the peak of his illness, Bucky's head in his shoulder. 

And of course, the drawings. The sketchbook paper tacked to the walls of their apartment, still-lifes in charcoal scattered across the coffee table. Sketches of how Steve wanted to remodel their kitchen, the woodwork and living room of their old, shitty apartment. But more, the memories shaded in with graphite, parties and the two of them in uniform, Bucky in all flesh and blood, dropping his bags after coming back from Iraq, enveloping Steve in a bone-crushing hug.    
  
He couldn't see them. Not now.    
  
His feet carried him to the couch, Steve's blurry smile tattooed on the back of his eyelids. Steve was all he could see. Even after he felt his consciousness slip, he knew Steve would be there, in his dreams.    
  
He always came back.    
  
_ The touch against his cheek was barely there, so light as if he feared that anything more would shatter him. Lights beat against his eyelids as Bucky backed away from them. Footsteps and radios pounding against his eardrums couldn’t cover the steady drip from his left shoulder. Everything was too much. Bucky hung his head, dirty hair draping over his eyes to shield him from the onslaught of his senses. Steve's hand shifted from his cheek, fingertips grazing over his cheekbones as Bucky flinched away from the sensation, everything but his breath too much for him.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Someone had untied him at some point, his one remaining arm now hanging limply at his side. He could hear a blur of undecipherable medical terms somewhere to his left, echoes of infection and mobility the only blurbs he could grasp onto. The sound of sirens in the distance made him shiver, cower back into himself. He could feel Steve at his feet, taste the salty tears that they shared.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Somehow, he regained his ability to speak. His voice wasn't his own, torn from the screams and pleas to his captor. He couldn’t remember what he’d sounded like before all the pain. "How'd you find me?" _ _  
_ _  
_ _ He felt Steve look up, raising his hand to push away Bucky's hair. Slowly lowering it as Bucky flinched away. "A month or two ago I was, well, somewhere I probably shouldn’t have been, and I overheard that you hadn’t met with your handler when you were supposed to. Few weeks ago, I got assigned to a B&E here. There were reports of two suspicious men in the area. Description sounded... somewhat like you. I poked around a bit and I… I just knew it w-was you." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "I knew I had to find you, Fury wouldn't have any of it, but I finally got him to budge." _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Bucky cracked open his eyes with difficulty, meeting Steve's rainy-day eyes and the dried tears lying on his cheeks. The lights around him were too bright, but Steve seemed to dim it just a bit. "Thanks." _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The same soft, shaky touch brushed away his hair. The last feather-light touch had been with a knife, the soft whispers only threats. Bucky forced himself not to flinch. "You've never had long hair before. I kind of like it." The small smile Steve spoke through was fake, Bucky knew, only putting on a display to calm him. He prayed that it would work.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ But with his next breath, it all came crashing down. His eyes closed of their own accord, the overwhelming urge to vomit and pass out taking over him. He felt himself fall forward, Steve's arms catching him before he collapsed on the bloodstained concrete floor, his voice breaking as he yelled for a paramedic. He couldn't help the retching, nothing but bile gathering in his mouth. But Steve just sat there, quivering fingers lightly brushing through his hair.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ "Buck." His whisper barely cut through the silence. Steve's outline was painted against the darkness. "Shh, I've got you." _ _  
_   
Bucky woke up to movement.   
  
His hand reached for the gun positioned at his hip, only to be blocked by someone. He felt himself being lifted up by strong arms and really started to struggle, kicking and forming his metal hand into a fist-   
  
“Shh, stop, Bucky. It’s me.”   
  
Everything froze as Bucky collapsed in Steve’s arms.   
  
He cracked his tired eyes open, the ceiling of the hallways leading up to their bedroom above him. Shifting his eyes ever so slightly, he was greeted with a pair of bright blue ones, sandy hair, a small smile perched upon perfect lips. There was a cut upon his cheek that Bucky reached up to brush his fingers over. He was home, it was-   
  
“Steve,” he breathed.   
  
Steve nodded, turning his head and pressing a kiss against the gash on Bucky’s palm. “What happened?” he whispered.   
  
The image of Steve grew blurry. “I thought you were dead.”   
  
Steve deposited him on the bed, pulling a blanket over him before slipping in himself. Long fingers ran through his hair, a silent lullaby and apology. Bucky shifted closer, and Steve held him there, tired and hurt but safe.   
  
Dark eyes met sky blue before flickering shut.   
  
”I always come back, don’t I?” was the last whisper he heard before falling into the pleasant oblivion of dreamless sleep.


End file.
